


throw you for a rush

by pleurer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Peter is 14 lol, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Watching, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Praise Kink, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, but if not it's in the author's notes, but really just the one spoiler, if you've watched it you can probably guess which one, one-sided Peter/Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 20:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19471930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleurer/pseuds/pleurer
Summary: “Oh my God,” says Peter, jolting upright as his dick twitches traitorously. Part of him is mortified that he’d managed to clickthisvideo out ofallthe possible videos. The other part of him is affronted, because the fact that a porn star who isn’t even as good-looking as Mr. Stark has the audacity to wear the Iron Man mask is just sacrilegious.





	throw you for a rush

**Author's Note:**

> Far From Home was… a _lot._ I wanted to write a plot-heavy fix-it, but then my brain was like, “Can you believe Peter canonically watched porn in Germany with Tony Stark’s credit card?” And then before I knew it, my id had taken the wheel, and would not let go until I had hammered out this fic. 
> 
> Title from Crush - Tessa Violet.

Peter brought his homework with him. Someone has to be responsible for Peter’s grades, even if that person is not Mr. Stark. He lies down on his stomach across the hotel bed, using his nightstand as a desk, and scribbles answers in his workbook. Every once in a while, he presses a testing finger to the bruises on his side and back, just to see if they’ve healed yet. He hisses in pain, but it’s considerably less pain each time, so eh, still worth it. He stole Captain  _ freaking  _ America’s shield! Boy, did he have a story to tell— to absolutely no one. Right. He deflates, snapping the workbook shut and rolling over onto his side.

He’d thought, at first, that maybe— maybe he could talk to Mr. Stark now, about this kind of thing. He always took it for granted that he’d have to take on everything alone, and he didn’t realize how much he needed to talk about everything until it all slipped out, in his bedroom, with Mr. Stark, a foreign but comforting presence next to him on the bed. 

But Mr. Stark had other problems right now. Adult problems. Like, the fact that Captain America was maybe a runaway war criminal now? Or something like that. Peter isn’t too sure what’s going on, actually. “You’re done,” Mr. Stark had said, his parting words to Peter, and he’d meant it. He’d been ushered back to the hotel by Happy and given no instructions, except to get some rest and stay put until his flight home the next morning.

He glances at the clock. Nine p.m. is too early to go to bed in a foreign country when he’s never left Queens in his life. If he was feeling up to it, he might have decided to (literally) swing by some popular tourist destinations. As it is, though, he’s exhausted and his side still hurts, just a little. So he lies back on the bed and replays the highlights of the day in his mind like a film reel.

The exhilaration of fighting with Mr. Stark— with the freaking  _ Avengers—  _ was something he hadn’t felt before. Like, ever. Nothing could beat that. And the most important thing was this: Mr. Stark  _ needed  _ him. He had billions of dollars and so many resources, and he could have recruited just anybody, and he chose  _ Peter,  _ because he saw Peter on YouTube and liked what he saw. 

“Me— he picked _me,_ ” Peter whispers to himself, allowing a grin to sneak up onto his face. And he had been good and done what he was asked, and even been praised for it, even if it had ended with him flat on his back on the ground, Mr. Stark looking down at him. He was sure Mr. Stark would be disappointed, and maybe he was, but he had told Peter that he did a good job, strong hands pinning Peter down by the wrist. And even though Peter couldn’t feel his skin through the suit, he could still remember the way Mr. Stark smelled, a mix of sweat and metal and— 

Great. Now Peter Junior’s standing at full attention. That’s the thing about being fourteen— you get hard in the blink of an eye.  Never mind being a teenager whose everything is dialed to eleven. The fabric of his boxers suddenly feels painfully constricting. Testing the waters, he brushes a hand over his crotch, through the pajama pants. His hips jerk up involuntarily, and he bites back a moan. He slips a hand down, past the hem, cups his cock, wet spot already forming in his boxers, and thinks about Mr. Stark in his Iron Man suit, pressing a hand through Peter’s own suit, right where Peter needed it— 

No. No way, he tells himself. That’s inappropriate. Mr. Stark took him under his wing because he thought he was a  _ good kid,  _ and there was no  _ way  _ Peter was going to ruin that by jerking off to his mentor. It doesn’t matter if Iron Man has been the go-to fantasy in his wank bank since he hit puberty. It doesn’t matter if Tony Stark is like, the whole reason he even  _ knows  _ he’s bisexual in the first place. Now that he’s actually met the guy, hung out with him,  _ impressed  _ him— he needs to stop doing this. 

Peter breathes out through his nose and forces himself to sit up. He grabs the remote and turns on the TV. He’s still got to jerk off, but he’ll find something else to do the job. Anything but thoughts of Mr. Stark. 

The video on demand system is in German, and he can’t find the Language button. He scrolls through some random options, clicks on something he doesn’t quite understand but looks like it  _ might  _ be adult videos, and lands on a set of thumbnails that clearly show naked people doing naked people things. He hisses out a “yes,” and pumps his fist in victory. 

The first thumbnail appeals to his tastes— a slim but still rather muscular, older-looking man balls deep inside a younger, slender, brown-haired bottom. He doesn’t understand the title, and he can’t see the older dude’s face, but he’s got a nice body, so he clicks on it. He props some pillows up against the headboard while he waits for it to load, and lays back, ready to enjoy the show. His hand is already down his pants before the video begins to play. It looks like the bottom is bent over a desk, propped up on his elbows. The guy on top has plunged three fingers into his ass, and having just finished up his prep work, he grips the younger guy’s hips and thrusts in. That’s when the camera pans up to show that the guy on top is wearing a mask. Not just any mask. An Iron Man mask.

“Oh my God,” says Peter, jolting upright as his dick twitches traitorously. Part of him is mortified that he’d managed to click  _ this  _ video out of  _ all  _ the possible videos. The other part of him is affronted, because the fact that a porn star who isn’t even as good-looking as Mr. Stark has the audacity to wear the Iron Man mask is just sacrilegious. Like, if Mr. Stark is Gucci, then this guy is Wal-Mart. Doesn’t even come close. 

Peter fumbles for the remote, but then the knock-off Iron Man on screen slams right into the other guy’s ass, and lets out a long, low grunt that sounds remarkably like Mr. Stark’s, and the table shakes and Peter can almost  _ feel  _ that cock up his own ass. God, how good it would feel to have Mr. Stark hold him down, firm and strong, and fuck him like that, the way he wanted— 

Just like that, he’s gone. He blows his load right in his pajama pants— hypersensitivity, teenage hormones, and his raging heart boner for Mr. Stark all working together to tip him over the edge in the most embarrassingly quick orgasm ever. He’s granted probably two and a half seconds of post-orgasmic bliss before the reality comes crashing down on him. 

He just came. To Mr. Stark. To a freaking  _ Iron Man  _ porno, while imagining Mr. Stark fucking him. He suddenly feels very sorry to Wal-Mart Iron Man for calling him sacrilegious. Peter is the sacrilegious one, here. 

Except. Well. The porno’s still playing, and damn, that bottom looks like he’s having the time of his life. Peter’s never heard anyone moan so enthusiastically, except for maybe himself in his own fantasies, because he would definitely moan twice as much if Mr. Stark actually bent him over a desk and blew his back out.

Peter looks down at his come-stained pants and hand streaked with white, and his dick, which is  _ already hard again—  _ jeez, talk about a superpower.  He looks back up at the screen, then down, then up again, and makes the snap decision that if he’s going to hell, he might as well buckle up and enjoy the ride.

He gets on all fours on the bed, mimicking the position of the bottom. The Iron Man on screen tightens his hold on the younger boy’s hips, digging his fingers in so hard it looks like it’ll bruise. Peter presses his own fingers in hard, inadvertently hitting the bruise, and the pain comes all at once in a dizzying rush— oh,  _ shit,  _ that’s  _ good.  _ He whimpers desperately, cock twitching, and his hips jut forward to rock against the bedsheets, friction making him sigh with relief and moan with pleasure. 

“That feel good, huh?” says the Iron Man— no, Mr. Stark. Peter can almost hear him, can almost feel that beard grazing over his own ear, his jaw. He whines, biting into the pillow to muffle his sound, rutting into the bedsheets at a hurried pace. God— God, if he keeps this up, he’s not going to last. 

“You going to take me like a good boy?” Mr. Stark growls in his ear.

Peter  _ whimpers,  _ melting into a helpless puddle. His breaths come in gasps now. “Mr. Stark,” he says hoarsely. “Please—  _ harder.” _

He has his eyes closed, now, all his senses zoned in on his fantasy. But he can hear the slap of skin on skin, can imagine how good it would feel to be split open on Mr. Stark’s cock— fuck, he wishes he’d had the foresight to bring lube. He brings two shaky fingers up to his mouth and sucks, a trail of saliva connecting it to his lips even as he brings his hand away. Then, he reaches around behind himself. Just the barest brush of his own wet fingers against his hole has him shaking like a leaf. 

Mr. Stark would click his tongue disapprovingly, he thinks. “This isn’t your first time, is it?” Mr. Stark was a grown-up, with loads of notches on his belt, if his sex tapes were anything to go by— he wouldn’t have time for virgins like Peter.

Peter feels his face grow hot. “I wanted to— save myself for you,” he whispers into the fabric of the pillow, letting out the impossible desire that had bloomed inside of him and that he had kept secret, never said aloud to anyone until now. 

“God,” says the Mr. Stark in his dreams, so brokenly, and then he kisses Peter’s shoulder blade. “God, you’re such a good boy, aren’t you? So good. Just for me.”

Peter moans, high-pitched and broken. “J-just for you, Mr. Stark,” he whispers, and it feels like laying his heart bare. As his fingers push past his rim, and his cock rubs against the bedsheets just right, he’s brought over the edge again, this time with such blinding force that he nearly blacks out. He comes hard all over the sheets, muffling a broken sob into the pillow.

It takes him a while to come down from his high, for the ringing in his ears to fade away enough for him to realize there’s no more sound. The porno has stopped playing, at some point. All Peter needed after all was the fantasy of Mr. Stark, intermingled with the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on Peter’s body in reality.

He rolls over onto his back and lets his head fall back. The guilt, finally, sets in. He feels really cold all of a sudden. He tucks himself back in and pulls the sheets up over himself. Across the room, the TV screen, back to the main menu, glares brightly at him in contempt. Oh God— after Mr. Stark had been so kind to pay for his hotel room— he’d watched Iron Man porn  _ with Mr. Stark’s money.  _

He’s stopped bank robberies at gunpoint. Last week, he saved two kids from a burning building. All without crying. It’s ridiculous that  _ this  _ is what makes his eyes water. Peter blinks his tears away furiously, presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. Takes in a few deep breaths and forces himself to calm down. 

“It’s okay, Peter,” he says to himself. “No one’s gonna find out. It’s all good. You’re good.” 

He wishes Mr. Stark was here to say those words to him instead. 

-

The next morning, Happy checks him out of the hotel. Peter perches himself over the back of the couch, drinking in the sight of the luxurious hotel lobby for the last time. After Happy’s done, he walks over to Peter, looking even more disgruntled than Peter has seen him. Which, given that he’s always disgruntled, says a lot.

“Tony flies you out of the country, pays for your entire trip, hotel room included, and this is how you repay him?” Happy fixes him with a cold glare. “I wouldn’t put it past you to sneak a couple drinks from the minibar, but  _ porn?  _ Really?”

Peter’s stomach drops all the way to his feet. He wishes, very fervently, that a hole would open up beneath him and swallow him whole. It doesn’t work. The universe is seldom kind to him.

“Wha— how did you know?” he squeaks out, one hundred percent certain that his face is beet red.

Happy rolls his eyes and pushes the door open, walking briskly outside. “Just come on and get in the car,” he says. 

He doesn’t bother to hold the door open for Peter. It slams shut right in his face.


End file.
